Dyst1
by Jynx234
Summary: Story about the guy, who for some reason finds himself in "The Zone". Trip to the universe, closer to what you can see in Tarkovsky's movie, than in the game, but still.
1. Chapter 1

He woke up from a headaches serious enough to serve as some form of torture. There was no way he could remember what happened in the last evening or the evening before this. For all he knew, he was in this place due to work assignment- his task was to research local self-sustainable farmer communities in the depths of Russian federation. Although he longed for much more challenging task, the last month has been plenty of fun and full of interesting discoveries. People were friendly, however language barrier was still a challenging enough. But back to the story.

Head was still pulsating with pain even after couple doses of aspirine, which was odd, considering he wasn't really a drinker. Of course, for the sake of the obligations from home, taking a couple of glasses of vodka with hosts seemed almost like the unavoidable task, but, then again, it happened almost half a month ago and shouldn't had any consequences by now. Thankfully, his aspirine supplies almost untouched were still there- in his backpack, together with two days' worth of food supplies, camera, some sweaters and other useful trinkets.

Even more strange seemed the place, where he woke up. Fact that it was some very run-down, almost dilapitated train carriage he spotted almost at the moment he woke up from the slumber as more than month such carriages were one of the main means of transport for him here in Russia. Behind the window, view changed rapidly, however, no matter how hard he seeked he didn't spot any traces of human out there in a forest, apart from the railroad infrastructure. No stations, no litter, not even the traces of glade which would imply woodworks in even a distant past, nothing. Behind the window there was only a forest- deep and primeval. Only the numbered supports of the power line flashed by. Numbers went way over 20000, which obviously meant, he was very far from the start of the line, hell knows how far, he wasn't able to calculate anyways so he settled to some thousand miles or so. Did he even started from the start? Where he was supposed to go? Why did he even was on the train? Where was the end of the line? He didn't know and the situation didn't get any clearer as he looked over his notes. He wasn't supposed to move for next two weeks and even then it was back to Moscow, Vnukovo airport and back to San Francisco, CA with a batch of valuable materials and notes. Or so he though. He lost his watch already a week ago in small and picturesque village, named Sofievka, where people lived off the river, hunting and their private gardens, full of long-forgotten breeds of apples and potatoes and his phone was simply charged out empty.

As he contemplated the situation, the train was gradually, yet definately reducing its speed. Could it be the station? Sure it was. There they were- at first some rusty transformator boxes flashed by, then barely visible, almost overgrown public toilets, then gloomy looking, long deserted railroad station. Then, the train stopped completely. He waited for the usual announcement with the name of the station, however nothing happened. Doors between carriages opened. Now or never. Doors don't stay open for long on russian trains. Station didn't look promising, but, on the flipside, he had been in worse and this time he wasn't convinced, he had any ticket ready. Despite the already distant headaches he grabbed his backpack and left the train. Strangely, doors didn't close right before his eyes or anytime later.


	2. Chapter 2

His boots hit the platform. Immediately door of the carriage shut. And train slowly started to move in the opposite direction. "Good one! This must have been the last station then." he concluded by himself, muttering under his nose, as he always did in situations, when he needed "someone smart to talk to". Once settled at least on some more or less stable groud, he took a good look at surroundings. The very platform on which he stood seemed pretty eroded over time, even for russian railroad stations. Benches were still there, but it seemed as they were there since the soviet times. Timetables were also there, still intact, but they looked fairly dated as if they were made before the computer era. The strange thing was the fact, that nothing seemed to be vandalised, as it usually were in russian towns or stations- none of the "horny" graffittis, no "signs of recent parties", like empty bottles of cheap booze, not even cigarette butts. "Oddly clean", he thought. He nervously searched his pocket for cigarettes, but didn't find any. So he decided to grab some from the kiosk in the station.

With downcast head he crossed the last lane of railroad tracks before the station as he made unpleasant discovery, that the station looked and indeed was abandoned. "Well that's the number", he muttered, overlooking intact, but dusty windows with empty flowerpots behid. He tried to twitch the main door but unsurprisingly it didn't budge. So he checked his phone. It came as a no surprise, that the phone was discharged. To be quite honest, he didn't expect much anyway as he was used to lack of signal coverage for the past months. It only seemed strange to him that the end of railroad line was abandoned. Typically lines would end in at least some kind of a transport hub, where he would be able to get some cigarettes, strike up some awkward chat with locals or look for some tickets to more familiar places. Overwhelming feel of dread started to take over his senses an rightfully so. Everything seemed a little bit off. So he decided to get himself busy with something interesting.

First he checked one of the odd timetables on the platform, he stood on. To his surprise they were still readable- black stencil letters and numbers on white painted aluminium tablet. That didn't help either. Station title appeared to be "3-ая переводная", which, as he already was able to conclude, meant "3rd transfer station".

Weather was a little bit strange too. Sky was lead-grey and there was the fog. He didn't really mention it at first, but when he looked afar, there it was. Fog covered the horizont. Anything distant was in the mist. So he set off to find at least someone, be it some local alcoholic or anything really. He was good with the people and russians typically couldn't help themselves being charmed by foreigner who desperately, but fairly successfully tries to speak russian. As he passed the yellow-painted train station, built in all-so-typical "Stalin's bakery" form, he noticed one of the service doors not closed properly, as they were just slammed with the best hopes for them to close. Naturally his curiosity took its toll. He carefully entered the station. Station seemed eerie. Everything was still there- large timetable, doubling the information of the timetables on the platform, cashiers covered in dust, kiosk with nothing in store. He decided to fetch his flashlight from the backpack, but for no real reason it wasn't working either, so all the light he got was the dim daylight, falling from the windows.

So he looked carefully for the signs of anything really, as the very thought of being dropped out in truely nowhere slowly led him to panic. And indeed he found some. In the middle of the hall there were footprints, surely left a while ago, as they were already covered with layer of dust, but still, clearly distinguishable. One of the trails led out of the building and was leading towards where he first came from. Lone walker obviously wasn't there for long. Footprints were concentrated in a centre, as he conluded. One path led to the attic, but the attic was locked. And so, full of enthusiasm, he proceeded to follow the other path- the one that led out of the building, the same way where he came from.


End file.
